


Obsidian

by Siff



Series: Doors, doors, so many doors... [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Red Rising, Red Rising fandom, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos meets the Pink pleasure-slave Aramis and falls head over heels. </p><p>Set in the universe of the Red Rising book by Pierce Brown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsidian

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Red Rising verse. Love that book. I haven't read Golden Son yet, so everything about the other Colors are mainly made up, since I have no idea if its true to the book or not.
> 
> Contains slave/master relationship, and the very extreme way people are in this universe.

It was desire at first sight. He never denied that. After all, that was how Aramis was created. Breed. For pleasure. Their pleasure. Never his.

Desire, yes. Love came later.

He was downright beautiful. Tall – for a Pink - and lean, with dark curly hair that rested on his head and fell in waves around his face. His skin was something unseen, a strange, delicate mix between that of a Gold and of a Bronx.

Made for beauty, yet so natural looking, since he had never been touched by a Violet – one of the lucky few. No wings or tails stuck from his body as an extra limb. Nor any pictures or words were carved into his skin, moving across his body when he danced or sang. Instead he was as natural as he was unnatural. Desire made flesh. A siren ready to lure men and women to their fate. His master had good taste.

Their first meeting was brief and they never shared a word. Porthos had accompanied his master, a former General, and his son to a social gathering for the most powerful of the Golds. The room had been packed with Golds and their pets. Pinks and Obsidians, like himself, flanked their masters like pretty birds, showing off power, arrogance. A daily play every man with power eagerly indulged, knowing very well what could be won by winning.

He ignored the eyes turned his way. His master wanted them to see him, to know he had something special in his hand. Something different. And he was different. Different than other Obsidians. His creation had been… messy. Instead of pale skin and white-blond hair like the other of his people, he was dark. In both skin and hair. And mood.

But he was still strong. And now as he stood among the Golds, as Pinks and Browns served food and strong liquids, he was taller and mightier than any other Obsidian in the room. Nearly eight feet tall, he was. Tall and dark. Had it not been for his Sigil, he could easily have been mistaken for a Gray. Golden eyes roamed over him from every corner. Had he not been sure that his master valued him as highly as he did, he would have feared being sold before the end of the night.

But he had no such fears, and instead spent the night being bored. Until he saw him.

Dressed in something that could barely be called clothes, and standing beside a small Pink girl with purple wings, he was. Beautiful. His name was Aramis, though Porthos would not learn until much later. Right then, he was merely a Pink.

Porthos stared, breaking every rule for his kind. He stared at the lean body and exposed skin, as the Pink fed his master grapes and held his goblet of vine, and he felt himself stir with forbidden desire. He only grew as the Pink suddenly looked at him, meeting his eyes dead-on before giving him a small, knowing smile. Never before had he felt such a consuming desire.

It was not allowed for him, for his people, and he had looked away, confusion and shame burning inside him. When he finally looked up, the Pink was gone, so was his master.

Hours later, back in his home, his thoughts were still swimming with the Pink.

\---

The second time was a private meeting between their masters. He and Flea, his master’s most treasured Pink, was told to wait in one of the most impressive resting rooms he had ever seen. Golds rarely held secrets from their pets, thought them too blank, too mindless to ever betray such knowledge to enemies. But now they were told to wait and Porthos knew something was up.

All his thoughts and wondering were interrupted the second the Pink from the party entered the room, coming out the door both their masters had entered about an hour ago. He came out looking disheveled, straightening the loose fabric that rested around his waist. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Porthos and Flea, but regained his posture after a blink of an eye. Porthos had to catch his breath as his blood rushed south.

They didn’t bow to each other. There was no reason. He walked past them, meeting Porthos eyes again, and he saw the reddening fingerprints decorating the Pink’s neck. For some reason it filled him with fury.

That night he dreamed of killing Golds. He woke in cold sweat.

\---

The third time he learned his name. Another party, the fifth in two nights, allowed them to meet.

It was one of the political ones, full of wine and whispered words behind golden goblets. The high ones spend their time trading secrets and Pinks, sharing in order to gain contacts and support.  It was disgusting. But it was normal. And Porthos was used to it. He just praised himself lucky he wasn’t a Pink.

Porthos’ master left him by a fountain in a luxurious garden, as he pulled Flea and Charon into a large tent where several other Golds waited. Porthos tuned out the noise that began barely a minute later.

He kept his eyes open, but as usual became quickly bored.

“Drink?” a voice suddenly said, and Porthos turned around and found the Pink before him, holding out a simple cup. He wasn’t very tall. Tall for a Pink, yes, but to Porthos, six foot was almost nothing. The Pink had to stretch his neck up to look him in the eyes.

Having no idea of what to say, he merely took the cup. The Pink smiled as he drank, a vine of some kind, and he felt his cheeks heat under the beautiful eyes. Natural and still not at all. He lowered the cup.

“Thank you,” he rasped, his throat dry despite the drink, and handed the cup back to him. Their fingers brushed as the Pink took it from him. A warmth spread through him.

“Very welcome,” the Pink said, his voice soothing, and Porthos found himself staring at the lips as they moved. Beautiful shaped, and he longed to touch them, run a finger over the plump flesh. He felt lightheaded as the Pink said, “I´m called Aramis. You?”

“Porthos, my name is Porthos.” he answered, the words tumbling from his mouth. He frowned at that. The words had left him far too easy, he was normally more guarded. He blinked and looked at Aramis who averted his eyes, his beautiful face suddenly closing off. And it dawned on him.

“Ah,” he said, taking a step backwards, out of reach, and the Pink smiled apologized, sadness creeping into his features.

“Sorry.” he said.

Aramis had not been formed, no. Not on the outside at least. Clever master.

“I should go.” Aramis said and reached out, placing his beautiful elegant hand on Porthos arm. He should have avoided the touch, but he craved it.

Porthos stilled as they touched. Warmth suddenly spread from the place their skin met. Again he found words sprang to his tongue, and he wanted to tell Aramis how much he wanted him. He would tell him anything if it meant Aramis would never take back his hand. How he happily would slay every Gold to, if only Aramis would just _never remove his hand_.

He heard the blood rush in his ears, and the noises from the tent were suddenly too loud. He tried to swallow and blushed deeply as Aramis’ eyes followed the movement of his throat.

Their eyes met again and Aramis’ hand slipped from his arm, the warmth leaving with it.

“Until next time, Porthos.” He said and just like that, he was gone.

\---

Their fourth meeting was during the Son of Mars’ attack on the high ones. The city burned, along with Porthos’ master’s house. He had woken to screams and smoke, barely making his way out of his room before the ceiling collapsed behind him. The halls were filled by panicked Pinks and Greens, running around and into each other like hens, trampling over those who fell.

Training told him to seek out his master, yet instinct told him to get the damn out the house. He tried to search for Flea and Charon, but it was impossible. Everything was chaos. He could only hope they found their own way out. They never did.

He ran through the house. The sound of bombs being dropped over the city made his blood run cold.

He fought his way to the front gate, which sprang open as he neared it and several masked men poured inside, armed and dressed for combat. His Obsidian warrior mind told him after a single look that it was mixed Colors coming towards him. Greys, Obsidians, Bronx, and even a few Golds. He barely believed it.

They blocked his path. Porthos tried to fight them, but one of them cut him, knife smeared with something, and he lost all feeling in his right leg. He fell, crashing to the floor as his other leg gave out under him. A man dropped down on him. He was small and light, and it was ridiculous. He grabbed the man and flung him aside, only to have him crawl back unto him. He clung to Porthos, digging his hands into his clothes.

He grabbed the man around the neck, squeezing, aiming for death. His thump slipped under the mask and touched skin. He stilled and stared at the man who brought up his own gloved hand, and managed to pry loose Porthos fingers. The weird warm feeling spread through his body and he knew.

“Aramis?” he managed to choke out. The man pulled off his mask and revealed a face so beautiful it nearly brought tears to Porthos’ eyes.

“It’s me,” Aramis said and grinned, and Porthos knew he would do anything to see that smile.

His world became very confusing after that.

\---

The city burned and the rebels gathered in their underground caves, which were full of Reds, escaped Pinks and Browns, surprisingly a few Violets and a whole lot of Golds. Traitors to their Color.

It took time before he could walk freely in those tunnels. He had to undergo surgery first. Extreme pain that ripped through his very being. His self, his Color.

They cut him open everywhere, and removed every trace of slavehood. Datachips which they ripped from his frontal cortex, tracking devices dug out from deep within his flesh, chokers hidden within in his spine and chest, secret weapons he had spend his life trying not to use, everything they cut out of him, and he was finally free.

He was tense at first, walking among the highest and the lowest of their society; see them interact as if it was everyday life. Golds sharing food and words with even the lowest of Reds. Normally cold Greys laughing at a Pink’s joke. All so natural below the surface of Mars. Maybe it was. After all, he didn’t know how long this had been going on. How long had Golds worked from within their circle to bring down their own Color? He had no idea.

He moved around among them, every Color in those tunnels, men, women and children, and he tried to just not break anything, or anyone with his still massive size.

Finally Treville found him and dragged him out of the chaos. The Gray pulled him along and into a room carved deep into a cave wall. A long table and a few chairs were placed in the middle of it, two of them already occupied.

A beautiful Gold woman, with long shinning hair and a god-like face, was straddling another Gold who sat in a chair, trying to suck the breath out of his mouth, a man who Porthos recognized and here he gaped openly. Athos de la Fere, son of Imperator Tiberius, Golden and Scarred. He was a legend, even among Porthos’ people. Finally he found prove of just how deep the Son’s of Mars had reached.

A Scarred as a rebel. His head hurt.

The second chair was filled by Aramis.

“So, Porthos,” Treville said, “I hear you want to join us.”

The Gold woman finally drew back from her heated kiss with the Scarred and sent him a long look. It was gold, pure gold, and just as hard and cold.

Athos de la Fere also looked at him, his scarred face far more welcoming that his lovers. He smiled at Porthos, who suddenly felt protective of this man. A Scarred superior that smiled at him like he was an old friend. His head still hurt.

But there was no question. Aramis was here.

Porthos looked at Treville and nodded.

“I’m in.”

Later Aramis pulled him out of the room and kissed him. He thought he might explode from the heat. But there was more than lust in it.

Their sixth, seventh and eight meeting, and all the ones after that, were the sweetest memories Porthos would ever have.


End file.
